NOVEL NEXT Chapter 32: Follies of Gluttony
The rain hammered down on San Francisco's slick streets like shards of broken glass, piercing Albion's skin with cold reminders of each stolen moment and every searing blow he'd endured. Fourteen now, thin and wiry from hardship, his dark curls clung tightly to his forehead, glasses fogged and blurred, shielding eyes that had long ceased to see clearly. Clarity brought pain, and pain was already abundant.
Each step he took was a rebellion against memories clawing from the shadows—the charred remains of his childhood home, his father's final terrified cry swallowed by flames; the relentless violence of his foster father, whose fists hammered him into mute submission; and the hollow, haunted eyes of a foster mother who abandoned life itself rather than endure another breath of despair. Those ghosts trailed him relentlessly, mixing with the rain, turning reality into a blurred nightmare.
Two weeks had passed since he had fled his latest tormentors. That night, he'd returned home late, breathing in a fleeting sense of teenage freedom, only to meet their cruel eyes gleaming in the dark. They'd seized his glasses—his father's last gift and the secret guardian of his inheritance—and stripped away every credit with cold digital efficiency.
"You don't deserve this, brat," his foster father had spat, throwing the fragile frames back roughly, nearly shattering them.
That was when Albion's fists finally flew, a sudden eruption of bottled rage and grief. But they had been stronger, harsher, reducing him again to bruised defeat, sending him fleeing into San Francisco's merciless embrace. Hunger became a relentless companion, pride kept him from begging, and desperation pushed him to steal a chocolate bar from a convenience store. But even that meager victory was lost to the cold barrel of a gun pointed at his trembling form, robbing him of everything but his glasses, clothes, and the taste of bitterness.
Albion stumbled barefoot now, raw skin scraping against wet pavement, shoulders heavy with the unbearable weight of survival. The city blurred around him, lights smearing into indistinct streaks. His breath hitched, chest tight with the memories flooding back. Every drop of rain burned with echoes: fists like winter stones, eyes of resignation, voices twisted with cruelty.
Yet amid this torment, a fragrance emerged—a delicate burst of lilies, incongruous yet captivating. Albion halted, pulse quickening as the scent intensified. Beneath the wavering halo of a streetlamp, a figure formed from shadow and mist.
"Albion, my dear boy." Her voice was silk and steel, familiar yet impossible.
His heart thudded painfully. "You're not real," he whispered, disbelief laced with yearning.
Bea smiled softly, her features luminous yet tinged with darkness. Dressed elegantly in a flowing black gown, she stepped closer, holding an umbrella that shielded him from the storm. Her touch was gentle as she brushed rain-soaked curls from his forehead, disturbingly maternal yet commanding.
"They've reduced you to nothing," she murmured, eyes dark and compelling. "Why not reclaim what's yours?"
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Albion swallowed hard, voice quivering. "What's left to reclaim?"
"Your dignity," she said softly, as though instructing a lost child. "Your power. Kill them, Albion. End it."
His entire body recoiled, shaking. "I can't—it's wrong."
Bea's gaze sharpened, her voice a tender dagger. "Right and wrong? They stole everything you had, piece by piece. Survival demands strength. Sometimes, you must choose between being predator or prey."
Albion shook his head vehemently, tears mixing with rain. "I won't become them."
Her expression softened, disappointment mingling with patience. "Then run. Always run, my sweet boy, until running fails. And when it does, I'll be waiting."
A flicker of warmth pulled his attention away—a solitary porch light, distant yet inviting amidst the storm's relentless fury. Bea's form began dissolving, her whispered promise trailing behind: "Remember, I'm never far."
Albion moved instinctively toward that distant glow, raw feet dragging across puddles, each step lighter, drawn forward by the fragile hope the light promised. As he reached the weathered porch, rain cascading off his trembling frame, he hesitated briefly before knocking.
The door creaked open, revealing a woman bathed in soft, comforting light. Her eyes—gentle yet lined with sorrow—studied his battered figure without judgment. Adele stepped aside, offering quiet sanctuary. "Come in, child. You're safe now."
Inside, warmth enveloped him immediately, scented with cinnamon and freshly baked bread, sharply contrasting the harshness outside. Adele gently took his fogged glasses, cleaning them with care, treating the fragile frames as if they were precious artifacts.
"We'll fix this," she whispered, placing them gently back on his face, her promise settling like balm over open wounds. Albion stood frozen, disbelief warring with hope. Here was kindness, unconditional and frighteningly unfamiliar.
As the door closed gently behind him, shutting out the storm, a profound relief filled Albion's chest, delicate yet resilient. For tonight, he chose to believe. Tonight, he allowed himself to hope.
Later, lying on a worn mattress in Sanctuary House, the night's quiet magnified his thoughts. The city hummed distantly, indifferent yet alive. Rain tapped rhythmically against the window, mingling with the muffled sounds of life beyond these walls.
Memories surged unbidden: stolen credits, harsh hands, and desperate nights. Each recollection burned fiercely, raw reminders of survival and defiance. Bea's haunting words echoed softly—running was survival, but one day he'd have to stop, turn, and face the monsters that pursued him.
Morning crept slowly over the horizon, bringing pale light through grimy windows. Albion sat up, heart aching but spirit stronger, feeling the bruises not as weaknesses, but as badges of survival. Sliding his glasses onto his face, he caught his reflection—scarred, exhausted, yet unbroken. He rose from bed, stepping into a world indifferent to his pain but oblivious to his quiet strength.
The scars remained, woven into his very being. But Albion knew now they did not define him; they marked his endurance. As he stepped onto the street, cool air filled his lungs, the city stirring around him. Each step became a declaration. He had suffered, yes, but he would not surrender. Bea's words lingered, both threat and promise. Yet Albion moved forward, determined to carve his path. The journey ahead would be harsh, fraught with pain and uncertainty. But he was ready.
In the quiet strength of dawn, he understood something crucial: the cruelty he'd faced was not his burden to carry—it was theirs. And though he might run again, someday he would turn, face them, and reclaim every stolen piece of himself. Albion walked steadily into the city's embrace, rain washing away his footprints behind him, the world indifferent yet full of silent promise. He would keep moving forward, for even amidst relentless storms, a single porch light might always guide him home.